I laugh weakly at Aura-Blue’s attempt at a joke, but I notice that Mila does not. She’s staring straight ahead, her jaw clenched.
I’m suddenly relieved that I’ve never mentioned Bo and his family to any of the people in town. The radicalized family living in the woods and hunting deer would be the first suspects.
We drive the rest of the way to the women’s shelter in silence. It’s not far from our town to Longridge, but the difference is noticeable. Everything is a bit shabbier, less geared towards the adventurous type’s picture-perfect seaside vacation. There are more strip malls and gas stations. The spaces between traffic lights have some houses with overgrown lots – a sure sign of foreclosure.
It’s still a middle-class town, and a few cheerful mom-and-pop shops in the centre are clinging to the tourist appeal of the town’s original architecture and its pl
acement on a states-long nature trial, but something’s happening to this place. Some kind of rot has set in, crumbling the framework.
When we get to the shelter, I find out what it is. Many of the women sitting out front smoking cigarettes and trying to swallow coffee have pockmarked faces and too-early rotting teeth. Meth. The others are just as skinny as the meth users, but have hollowed-out eyes and wear dark, long-sleeved shirts favoured by heroin users everywhere.
Meth and heroin have swallowed this town whole. It’s like a plague. So that’s why my grandparents are thinking of selling. There was always a line between the summer people and the year-rounders, but I can’t imagine any tourist town keeping its appeal with this many addicts. Crime must be insane here.
As we get out of Mila’s shiny Mini and walk in the back door of the women’s shelter, Aura-Blue slips her hand into mine and rests her head on my shoulder for a brief moment.
‘It’s so hard,’ she whispers.
I put my arm around her and give the tender-hearted girl a quick squeeze. ‘Let’s find the coordinator,’ I say brightly. No whining allowed. Mila knows that. She’s already marching in the back door with a smile held rigidly on her face.
We show up just as the full-time staff is standing in a circle, holding hands, and saying a prayer to each of their individual higher powers. They end with the chant, ‘Keep Coming’.
Since I’m new, the coordinator, Maria, puts me in the back of the kitchen chopping vegetables. They don’t want a newbie out front staring at the women’s destroyed faces or bursting into tears when they see one of the blank and starving children that some of these women have with them.
I’ve chopped before, so I put on my hairnet, apron and gloves, and get to work. The only rule is to go as fast as you can without slicing off your fingers. I chop. And if it weren’t for the onions, I’d love this job. But there are always onions. I’m so blinded by the fumes that my fingers are in danger. I’m relieved when Maria tells me I’m done chopping for the day, and it’s time for me to move on to pots and pans. Lunch is over, and the time just flew. I was busy. There are a lot of people at this shelter. Too many for such a small town.
As I switch stations and change out my cloth apron for a rubber one, I can’t believe the day is half done. And I didn’t even think about anything. Nothing. Just . . . vegetables, I guess. Working one afternoon in a shelter is not restitution. There is no restitution for what I’ve done. But I do feel something that’s almost like peace.
Mila and Aura-Blue are doing the side-work out front. I nod to the older woman who supervises pots and pans. She’s wire thin, her skin is rough, and she has the ever-shifting gaze of a recovering addict. She doesn’t talk to me, but she does call out to one of the other women at another station. Their conversation carries.
I take up a lump of iron wool and scrub a pot big enough for me to crawl into. I try not to butt in. They’re talking about who is showing up to meetings and who is back out there. They ask each other when was the last time either of them saw so-and-so. They aren’t surprised that Sandy, who’s still pretty enough to trick, took off a few weeks ago and didn’t come back. They talk about who has died, and who hasn’t died yet. Neither of them expects anyone to get out of this alive. Not even themselves.
I finally run out of pots and go look for Maria. She flips through pages on her clipboard and checks my work.
‘Good job,’ she says, her eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘You work hard.’
‘I like it here,’ I tell her. I try not to sound too desperate, but now that I know what an afternoon of almost-peace feels like, I’m not sure what I’d do if I had to give it up. ‘Can I come back? Regularly?’
‘Yeah,’ she replies.
‘Thank you.’ I turn to go find Mila and Aura-Blue, and Maria stops me.
‘They sell these goggles to protect your eyes for when you’re chopping onions. Cost about twenty bucks, but you don’t tear up,’ she tells me. And she’s smiling now. I haven’t seen her do that all day.
‘I’ll get a pair,’ I say, and I walk out back where Mila and Aura-Blue are waiting in the car.
21 AND 22 JULY
I get home from the shelter, shower, and fall asleep.
In the downy haze of a guilt-free sleep, I hear voices. They pull me up, fighting, and I roll over, trying to grasp at the imageless sensation of being worth something again. But it’s gone.
I wake up drowning, as usual. I take my meds and gulp down two glasses of water. I stand in the bathroom and wait to feel nothing again. I look out the window.
When I go downstairs, Grandma and Grandpa are still lingering over coffee. I pour myself a cup and greet them.
‘Rob came by last evening,’ Grandma tells me. I nod, only now recognizing the sound of his voice at the door.
‘Thank you for not waking me,’ I say. ‘I was exhausted after yesterday.’